The Joker of the Opera
by Christine M. Greenleaf
Summary: The Joker tells his twin children the story of a mysterious, disfigured, homicidal maniac who lives underneath the Paris Opera House and encourages the talent of the young soprano, Harleen Quinzel, while terrorizing the other performers. I've been wanting to do a Batman version of my favorite musical for ages, and I finally got around to it! Enjoy! :-)
1. Chapter 1

**The Joker of the Opera**

"Dad! Make Leenie turn her music down!" shouted J.J., the Joker's teenage son, clapping his hands to his ears. His twin sister Arleen's music bled through the walls of her room into his, and to J.J.'s ears, it was a hideous cacophony of sound which disturbed him from his work. "I'm trying to write up a business model here, and I can't with that racket distracting me!"

"It's not a racket, J.J.!" snapped Arleen, storming into his room. "It's the most beautiful musical ever written! Tragic and haunting! You just have no romance in your soul!"

"Sure I do," said J.J. "But forgive me if I don't find people singing at the top of their lungs particularly romantic. If one of my dates just started doing that randomly, I'd end the relationship on the spot, and then contact Arkham."

"It's called suspension of disbelief, J.J.," snapped Arleen. "You have to do that all the time for superhero movies – why not musicals?"

"Because frankly, I don't find stories about super-powered freaks that unbelievable, living as I do in Gotham City," retorted J.J. "But I find a lot unbelievable about an ugly guy living underneath an opera house where everyone sings to each other in casual conversation."

"The only thing I find unbelievable is the ending," said Arleen. "Like any woman in her right mind would go for the boring, simpering aristocrat over the obsessive, psychotic genius. If Mom's taught us one thing, it's that nothing's more attractive than a resolute psychopath who murders innocents to get his way."

"Oh, my ears are burning!" chuckled Joker, entering the room suddenly.

"Dad, settle an argument," said J.J. "Are musicals inherently unbelievable?"

"No," said Joker. "Many's the time I've randomly burst into a song and dance routine on a scheme. Admittedly, no one else joined in except Harley occasionally, and that would usually screw it up. But nothing's inherently unbelievable, J.J. As your father, I thought I would have taught you that anything's possible."

"See?" said Arleen, sticking her tongue out at her twin brother.

"Well, at least buy some headphones so I don't have to hear it," retorted J.J. "I think the music's loud and annoying, and the story is stupid and unbelievable. I'm entitled to that opinion, and I'm entitled to not being bothered by it."

"He is," agreed Joker, nodding. "We respect differences of opinion in this house, unless they're disagreeing with me, of course. Don't you have headphones, Leenie?"

"I guess," sighed Arleen. "I just think it's the kinda music that needs to be blared out – it's so full of pain and passion and you can't experience that fully through headphones. You have to surround yourself with the music, like it says in the song."

"Well, you're welcome to blare it when your brother's out," said Joker. "Harley and I don't mind it. We're used to rackets after being in Arkham."

"To be fair, puddin', most of the rackets in Arkham were usually made by us," said Harley Quinn, entering the room. "But what don't we mind?"

"Leenie's favorite musical," said Joker.

"Oh no, I love it," said Harley, smiling. "No matter how many times I hear it, I always cry at the end. It's just so unfair. The guy might be a little unique-looking, but that's no reason to abandon him after he killed people for you! People can be so superficial sometimes," she sighed.

"Well, I can't change the ending of the musical," said Joker, shrugging. "But I can give you a happier version of the story, if you want. One where the pretty girl ends up with the violent psychopath."

"You're gonna tell us a story, Dad?" asked J.J., eagerly. "Just like old times?"

"Just like old times," said Joker, nodding.

"Your stories were the best when we were kids, Dad!" exclaimed Arleen, hugging him. "I don't think it's possible to improve my favorite musical, but if anyone can do it, it's you!"

"Well, thanks for your faith in me, sweetness – I'll certainly do my best," said Joker. "There'll probably be less singing in my version, but you never know. I think I've got who I'm casting as every character sorted, so let's start and we'll see how it goes. It was the late nineteenth century, so before indoor plumbing, in Paris, France, so you can imagine how bad everyone smelled…"

"Puddin', no derogatory national stereotypes," snapped Harley.

"Aw, but I was gonna do a comedy French accent for the characters!" protested Joker. "And have them all surrender at the end!"

"No derogatory national stereotypes," repeated Harley, firmly.

"Take all the fun outta telling a story," muttered Joker. "All right, I'll start over. Paris, the late nineteenth century. The people of France had decided to take a rare break in between revolutions…"

"Puddin'!"

"That's not a derogatory national stereotype – that's just history!" snapped Joker. "There was no revolution going on at the time, except for the one in the Paris Opera House, where our story begins. And that wasn't so much a revolution, as a voluntary transfer of power from the old opera director to the two new owners."

"There you are, gentlemen, just sign here, and the opera is yours," said Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, eagerly holding out a pen to the two men opposite him. His eyes betrayed a look of immense relief when the signatures were written down on the paper, and he shook hands heartily with the two men. "Congratulations – you won't regret your investment, I assure you," he said, puffing out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette holder. "Let me take you downstairs and introduce you to the company – they're just in the midst of rehearsals."

"Isn't this exciting, Jonathan?" asked Jervis Tetch eagerly, as he and his business partner, Jonathan Crane, followed Cobblepot out of the office and down the stairs. "Just look at this place! It's gorgeous!"

"Yes, beautiful," agreed Crane. "Which makes me wonder at the marvelous price we got for it. I should have thought it was worth at least double what we paid for it, if not triple."

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, haven't you heard that expression?" asked Tetch. He paused on the staircase and squealed excitedly. "Just look at the scrolling on those columns!" he exclaimed, pointing.

"Delightful," agreed Crane, with far less enthusiasm.

"And these sculptures, they're gorgeously detailed," said Tetch. "So elaborate! Are those cherubs on the ceiling?! I do believe they're cherubs!"

"Save some excitement for the auditorium, Monsieur Tetch," said Cobblepot. "Of course the building is beautiful, but we take particular pride in the caliber of our performers, as you will see inside."

"Won't you miss it, Monsieur Cobblepot?" asked Crane, as Cobblepot beckoned them through the doors that led to the backstage area.

"Miss it? No, not at all. There are certain…pressures in running an opera that…I personally didn't foresee, and which have had an adverse effect on…my health. I…was told by my doctors to get away," said Cobblepot, slowly. "The asking price was so low because of those reasons…I need to…get away as soon as possible before things get worse for me."

"I see," said Crane, as they wandered onto the stage in the midst of rehearsals for the opera's latest production of _Pagliacci_. "Well, I do hope you recover quickly."

"Oh yes, I will," said Cobblepot, hastily. "I'm sure. Once I'm away from here…everything will be fine."

The rehearsal was in full swing, with a beautiful red-headed woman belting out a passionate number into the face of an incredibly handsome man. The surrounding chorus members supported them under the watchful eye of the musical director, Madame Joan Leland.

"Gentlemen, please clear the stage – we're rehearsing!" she snapped during a pause in the singing.

"My apologies, Madame Leland," said Cobblepot. "You'll want to be on good terms with her – Madame Leland is basically in charge of things on stage," he added to Crane and Tetch. "She runs a tight and efficient ship, or at least she tries to. We still have a few divas in the company."

"Harleen Quinzel, you just missed your cue!" snapped Madame Leland, glaring at a pretty blonde chorus girl. She was holding a prop glass and gazing up dreamily towards the rafters, but Madame Leland's voice snapped her out of her reverie.

"Sorry, Madame Leland," she said, hurrying over to hand the glass to the pretty redhead star, who glared at her.

"You're lucky you have a part – pay attention in future or you won't much longer!" the red-haired woman snapped at her, grabbing the glass away.

"Sorry, Signora Ivy," said the blonde girl, looking embarrassed. The red-haired woman threw the glass back at her, and continued singing.

"Who on earth is that stunning creature?" asked Crane.

"Signora Pamela Ivy? She's been the leading soprano here for nineteen seasons, you know that," said Tetch. "We've seen all her performances…"

"Not her," interrupted Crane. He pointed at the blonde girl, who had returned to her place in the chorus and whose eyes wandered up toward the rafters again. "Her."

"That's Harleen Quinzel, one of the chorus girls," said Cobblepot. "She has a fine voice, but she's a bit of an inattentive performer, I'm afraid. Always has her head in the clouds."

"I see Signor Dent is in fine form tonight," commented Tetch, nodding at the attractive man partnered with Ivy.

"As always – he plays so well opposite Signora Ivy," said Cobblepot, nodding. "Though I suspect that's partially because of their off-stage affair. Everyone knows about it – they don't try to be discreet, even when they're publicly performing," he said, gesturing as Ivy reached her hand around to squeeze Dent's bottom. "But if you try and speak to her about it, she'll snap at you. In fact, if you try to give her any direction or criticism at all, she'll snap at you. She's a bit of a diva, I'm afraid, and must be handled with kid gloves at all times. The company calls her 'Poison Ivy,' as a nickname because of that, but never to her face, of course."

"Of course," agreed Tetch. "Goodness, I wish someone had warned us about divas before we bought this place, right, Jonathan? Jonathan?" he pressed, as his friend just stared at Harleen Quinzel in captivation.

"Sorry, what?" he asked.

"You know it would be incredibly unprofessional for the owners of the opera to have an affair with one of its singers, don't you?" asked Tetch.

"Yes, yes," snapped Crane. "I assure you, that's not my intention. She's just…a strikingly beautiful young lady."

"She comes from a poor family, an orphan since the death of her father several months back," said Cobblepot. "It affected her deeply – she was never a very outgoing person, but after that, she withdrew even further into her shell. She spends a lot of time alone, away from the rest of the company. She doesn't really have any friends, or anyone to look after her."

"The poor girl," said Crane. "Taking a fatherly interest in her isn't unprofessional, is it, Jervis?"

"Not as such," agreed Tetch. "But we mustn't play favorites with the company, Jonathan. We must treat them all as equally valued employees."

"You should treat Signora Ivy a lot better than that, or you'll have a crisis on your hands," said Cobblepot. "She is the epitome of a prima donna."

The current song ended, and the three men immediately began rapturously applauding. Ivy smiled at them in acknowledgment, and then kissed Dent deeply. "I've been wanting to do that since the beginning of the duet," she said.

"You sang beautifully, my love," Dent murmured.

"I know," sighed Ivy. "I always do. But I never get tired of hearing it."

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have a few moments of your time, please…" began Cobblepot, stepping forward.

"Make it quick," snapped Madame Leland, glancing at her watch. "We're on a tight schedule, and I want to go over that song again without Signora Ivy's wandering hands."

Ivy glared at her. "Don't blame me – we would have had to go over it anyway because some little brat forgot her cue," she said, nodding at Harleen.

"It will just take a minute, Madame Leland," said Cobblepot.

"I'm timing it," retorted Madame Leland.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for many months there have been rumors of my imminent retirement," said Cobblepot, addressing the company. "I can now tell you that these are all true, and I would like to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the opera, Monsieur Jonathan Crane and Monsieur Jervis Tetch," he said, beckoning them forward.

The company applauded. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Signora Pamela Ivy," said Cobblepot, taking her hand and bringing her over to them.

"Signora, this is an extraordinary honor," said Tetch, seizing her hand and kissing it. "I've experienced all your greatest roles – your voice is perfection."

"I'm aware of that," said Ivy, smiling at him. "But it's always nice to meet a fan."

"If I recall, Nedda has a rather fine aria about birdsong in the first act of _Pagliacci_ ," said Tetch. "I wonder if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition, Signora. Unless of course Madame Leland objects," he said.

"Let her object – she doesn't control me," interrupted Ivy, over Madame Leland's protest. "No one controls me, not even my new managers. But I will oblige you, Monsieur Tetch, because I wish to," she said, clearing her throat and nodding at the pianist.

She launched into the aria, but hadn't got more than a few strains out when a backdrop suddenly plummeted from the rafters, nearly hitting Ivy, who was pushed out of the way just in time by Dent. The backdrop had some writing scribbled on it in red paint: _What's red and green and tone-deaf all over? Poison Ivy, of course! HA HA HA!_

Ivy stared at the inscription, and then grew furious. "Who did this?!" she shrieked. "Whose idea of a joke is this?!"

Nobody said a word, but Harleen Quinzel couldn't suppress a small giggle. "You!" shrieked Ivy, storming over to her. "You think this is funny?! Did you do this?!"

"She's been here the whole time, Signora – how could she?" murmured Madame Leland, glancing up to the rafters. "I think it must have been…the Joker."

Nervous murmuring started up at this. "The Joker?" repeated Crane, confused. "Who on earth is the Joker?"

Nobody responded. "Signora Ivy, please accept our sincerest apologies for this horrible prank," said Tetch. "We will find out who's responsible, but there's no need to lose your temper. These things do happen."

Ivy turned slowly toward him, her eyes blazing. "These things do happen?" she hissed. "You have been here five minutes – what do you know? Yes, these things do happen all the time! For the past six months, these things do happen, and did you stop them from happening?!" she shrieked at Cobblepot. "No! And you," she growled, rounding on Tetch. "You're as bad as he is! These things do happen! Well, until you stop these things from happening, this thing," she said, pointing to herself. "Does not happen! Harvey, come along – we're leaving!" she snapped, storming off the stage and out of the auditorium.

Dent followed her instantly, turning back to sneer at Tetch and Crane. "Amateurs," he muttered.

"Well, I don't think there's much more I can do to assist you gentlemen," said Cobblepot, smiling at them. "If you need me, I'll be in Gotham City. Goodbye."

He hurried from the room, leaving Tetch and Crane with an instant and very deep sense of buyer's remorse.


	2. Chapter 2

"Well…I'm sure Signora Ivy will be back," voiced Tetch at last, after a long silence.

"I think not," said Madame Leland, quietly. "It's obvious that he doesn't want her here – most of his pranks have been directed at her."

"He?" repeated Tetch.

"The Joker," said Madame Leland, nodding.

"Who in God's name is this Joker?" asked Crane. "What kind of sick joke is all this?"

"He's no joke, Monsieur," said Madame Leland. "He is very real. Those who deny his existence and defy his wishes are punished by his twisted sense of humor – usually a prank involving some kind of pain or violence, as you saw from Signora Ivy's experience," she said, nodding at the backdrop. "And speaking of his wishes, he has entrusted me with a message for you, as the new owners," she said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing an envelope sealed with purple wax in the shape of a smiling face.

Tetch took the note from her, reading it aloud:

 _Bonjour, folks! Welcome to the Joker's Opera House of Fun! I'm not a guy who's a big fan of rules and regulations, but let me just pass on a few guidelines you should follow in order to keep me my usual smiling, laughing, happy self. First of all, Box Five is the one I hang out in to watch the shows, so be sure to keep it empty for me– I don't know what this band of losers would do without my comedic, constructive criticism during every performance. Without my hilarious commentary, the audience might actually have to just sit through an opera, and how boring would that be? Secondly, my stand-up routines don't come cheap, and my salary for services rendered is due at the end of every month – in other words, right now. Cobblepot managed to scrape together 20,000 francs a month, but I'm always open to a pay rise, especially with the illustrious Vicomte Bruce Wayne as your patron_ …wait a minute, how does he know that?" demanded Tetch. "We hadn't announced that yet…"

"Is it true?" asked Madame Leland, as an interested murmuring started up from the company.

"Yes, it's true!" snapped Crane, snatching the note from Tetch. "The Vicomte will be at the performance this evening, in our box, assuming there _is_ a performance tonight! What I want to know is how this Joker knew about him!"

"Did you mention the fact that the Vicomte was your patron to Monsieur Cobblepot?" asked Madame Leland.

"Yes, of course," snapped Crane.

"Then the Joker will have heard," said Madame Leland, nodding. "He hears all that goes on within his opera."

"It's not his opera!" snapped Crane. "We paid good money for it, so it's _our_ opera! And I, for one, won't be bullied around by some ridiculous prankster!" he said, tearing up the note. "I despise bullies, and I refuse to give into them under any circumstances! Let this Joker do his worst…"

Madame Leland held up a hand to silence him. "For your sake, and for the sake of everyone here, please do not challenge him, Monsieur," she murmured. "He is not a man to be trifled with, and he is more dangerous than you know."

"We'll worry about him later – right now we have more pressing concerns, like tonight's performance," said Tetch. "If Signora Ivy refuses to return, what are we going to do? We have a full house tonight – we can't possibly cancel."

"Obviously someone else will have to sing the role," said Crane. "Madame, is there an understudy for Signora Ivy?"

"Signora Ivy does not tolerate understudies," said Madame Leland. "She sees them as trying to emulate her greatness, which she finds insulting."

"Oh, this is a disaster!" exclaimed Tetch, taking off his top hat and running his fingers through his hair. "On our first day too…"

"However, I do have a suggestion," interrupted Madame Leland. "Let Harleen Quinzel sing it," she said, gesturing at the girl.

Harleen's eyes widened in sudden terror. "M…me?" she stammered. "N…no, I can't do it – not the starring role, I'm not ready…"

"You have been well taught," said Madame Leland, gently. "You _are_ ready, my dear. You just need to believe in yourself, and your voice will shine through. Trust me."

She beckoned Harleen forward to the front of the stage. "Just try singing from the beginning of the aria," Madame Leland said. "And don't be afraid. You'll do splendidly."

Harleen stared around in terror at her fellow performers and at the managers, but then the music started. She swallowed, managing to whisper out a few words of the aria. She glanced up suddenly in the direction of Box Five, smiled, and then began singing stronger, with more confidence. Her voice soared up toward the rafters of the opera house, pure and perfect, completely blowing everyone away.

When she was finished, Crane seized her hand and kissed it. "You are perfection, my child!" he exclaimed. "Where on earth did you learn to sing like that?"

"I…have been taking lessons from a great teacher," murmured Harleen, beaming in the direction of Box Five.

"They must have been heaven sent!" exclaimed Tetch, also kissing her hand. "May I ask their name?"

"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us, we really must make Miss Quinzel ready for her performance tonight," interrupted Madame Leland, before Harleen could answer. "Come along, Miss Quinzel – let's get your costumes fitted."

Harleen was led away, glancing back once at Box Five. Tetch followed her gaze, and thought he saw the outline of a mysterious shadow in the box, beaming a huge, white grin.

…

"Of course Aunt Ivy's the diva!" laughed J.J., breaking in on the story. "Honestly, Dad, I don't know why you're always so mean to her!"

"I'm not mean to her!" protested Joker. "Being the prima donna just suits her, personality-wise."

"I can't argue with that," agreed J.J. "But some men find women like that attractive."

"Who?" asked Joker.

"I dunno – just some men," said J.J., hastily.

"The big thing I'm having trouble believing so far is me being able to sing like that," spoke up Harley. "I mean, I got a good singing voice, but not for all that classical, opera type stuff."

"Well, if we make a movie outta this version, pooh, we'll have someone dub your singing," said Joker. "Or just cast someone else as you altogether."

"Ok, but make sure they can really sing rather than just being a case of celebrity casting," said Harley, nodding. "We don't wanna end up with a repeat of the Joel Schumacher version."

"Harley, you know that name is banned in our house, unless it's damning him to the deepest fires of hell for _Batman and Robin_!" snapped Joker. "Insulting Batsy and leering over him in a rubber bat-nipple suit like that – I oughta have dueled him for Batsy's honor a long time ago!"

"Stop worrying about Batman's honor and get back to the story, please, Dad," said Arleen. "Personally, I think the most appropriate casting choice so far is Bruce Wayne as the simpering aristocrat. If he was around in nineteenth century France, that's definitely who he'd be. Some rich do-gooder who can't just mind his own business."

"Yep, that's the moral of this story, princess," agreed Joker. "People should keep their nose outta other people's business and not try to self-righteously interfere in things that don't concern them. It's definitely a lesson Batsy should learn, for one. Anyway, let's get back to the story where I introduce you to the villain of the piece – the Vicomte Bruce Wayne."


	3. Chapter 3

The Vicomte Bruce Wayne was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Not literally, of course – then he would have been a freak of nature. But Bruce was anything but that – handsome, strong, and incredibly rich, he was exceedingly popular and beloved by all who knew him. His family was exceptionally wealthy, and as the only child of the Comte Thomas Wayne, Bruce was, from an early age, spoiled rotten. He was provided with his heart's every desire as a boy, and by the time he was a grown man, he had developed a very strong sense of entitlement, as well as a belief that the world revolved around him. And that all the people in it existed only to please him.

One summer in his boyhood, while Bruce and his family were vacationing on the French Riviera, they had passed by a man and his young daughter on the street, shabbily dressed and performing for the wealthy passers-by in the hopes of earning enough to eat that night. The man played the violin with exceptional skill, while his daughter had a sweetly innocent and beautiful voice. Bruce had been captivated by the music, and begged his parents to give them some money. Wanting to please their child, they did even better, inviting the man and his daughter to share their accommodation during their stay in exchange for daily music sessions for Bruce. Both the man and his daughter accepted the offer gratefully, and that was how Bruce had first met Harleen Quinzel.

The Waynes stayed on the Riviera for three months, during which time Bruce and Harleen became fast friends. When it was time for the Waynes to return to Paris, Bruce asked his parents if the Quinzels could accompany them. His parents then sat him down and patiently explained that people like them couldn't be seen in polite society with people like that. It simply wasn't done. The Quinzels were from a much lower class than them, and lower classes and higher classes shouldn't mix, for their own sake. The lower classes would feel uncomfortable in high society when they realized they were completely out of place – it was doing them a kindness to return them to the gutter where they belonged. Bruce's parents also told him if he accepted this with good grace, they would buy him a puppy on their return home. Bruce accepted this deal, bade Harleen goodbye, got his puppy, and thought no more about her.

At least, until that night at the opera. That night, as he sat in the owners' box with Jonathan Crane and Jervis Tetch, Bruce Wayne stared in utter captivation at Harleen Quinzel's gorgeous voice. And gorgeous appearance, of course – she had been a rather gawkish, awkward-looking girl, an ugly duckling that had clearly blossomed into a beautiful swan.

Bruce Wayne made up his mind on the spot that he was going to marry Harleen Quinzel. His parents might not approve of the mixing of their classes, just as they hadn't all those years ago, but to hell with them, thought Bruce. He saw himself as a noble hero, daring to defy convention and invite ridicule by marrying beneath his station. But he would have the last laugh when he arrived at his numerous balls and galas with the radiant Harleen Quinzel on his arm. She was beautiful and talented – what more could he possibly ask for in a wife?

The performance ended, and Bruce led the rapturous applause for Harleen, who seemed positively awestruck at her warm reception, bowing meekly and gratefully to her audience. Bruce thought her obvious modesty was yet another good sign in terms of matrimony – he believed a mild temperament was also an ideal quality in a wife.

He made his excuses to Crane and Tetch, and then hurried backstage toward Harleen's dressing room, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bouquet of flowers (that he had sent his servant Alfred out to purchase during the interval) in the other.

Bruce reached the door to her dressing room and raised his hand to knock, when he suddenly heard voices coming from inside. One was obviously Harleen's, but the other was the voice of a man.

"You did Daddy proud tonight, kiddo," the man was saying.

"I'm so glad you're pleased, Mr. J," said Harleen. "I sang only for you. And you must have really liked it because you didn't interrupt the show once."

"Nah, wouldn't crash your debut performance, toots!" chuckled the male voice. "But don't worry, I'll be back to my regular antics next time. I just wanted you to bask in your achievement tonight. You deserve it, kid."

" _You_ deserve it," she said. "Without you, I'd never be able to sing like this. I'd never have…believed in myself enough to do it. I owe everything to you, my voice, my success…even my smile. I forgot what it was like to be happy after my father died. You reminded me. I can't thank you enough, Mr. J."

"You don't need to, kiddo – seeing you out there knocking everyone's socks off is thanks enough," replied the man. "Heck, seeing you smile is thanks enough. You got such a beautiful smile."

"It's yours, Mr. J," she said. "Everything I have, my smile, my body, my soul…it's all yours."

Bruce did not like the tone of this conversation at all, and was determined to put a stop to it at once. He rapped sharply on the door. It was opened a second later by Harleen Quinzel.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Miss Quinzel, it's me!" said Bruce, smiling at her.

"Oh. Uh…who's me?" asked Harleen, looking confused.

"You must recognize me – Vicomte Bruce Wayne!" exclaimed Bruce. "We met on the Riviera when we were children."

Harleen just looked at him blankly, and then the realization struck her. "Oh, the rich boy," she said, nodding. "My father and I stayed in your holiday chateau with you and played you music…"

"Yes, that's right," said Bruce. "I'm so glad you remember me – I never forgot you. And seeing you perform tonight was just…the most transcendent experience of my life. You have the voice of an angel. These are for you," he said, handing her the flowers and champagne.

"Well…thank you very much," said Harleen, glancing inside. "Uh…won't you come in, Bruce? I'm sorry, can I call you Bruce, or is it Monsieur le Vicomte? I don't know how someone like me is supposed to address someone like you."

"To you, Harleen, it's always Bruce," said Bruce, kissing her hand. "And I may call you Harley just like old times, may I not?"

"Uh…sure," said Harley. "Whatever you want."

She held open the door for him, and Bruce was shocked to see, upon entering the room, that it was empty. There was no sign of the man she had been talking to.

"Something wrong?" asked Harley, noticing his stunned expression.

"Um…no," said Bruce, forcing a smile. Maybe there was a back door out of the room that the man had slipped through. "Am I…the only admirer you've had call on you tonight?" he asked. "I find that hard to believe."

"No, there were a bunch," said Harley. "But I sent them all away – I don't like all the attention if I can avoid it. But I guess it's kinda unavoidable when you're a starring performer."

"So you weren't…entertaining other men in here earlier?" asked Bruce.

"That's really none of your business, Bruce, if you don't mind me saying," said Harley. "I can associate with whoever I want, and I don't have to answer to you or anyone."

"Well, not yet," said Bruce. "But hopefully soon, if you'll permit me to do something very forward."

He knelt down in front of her suddenly, taking her hands. "Harleen Quinzel, will you marry me?"

"Marry you?" repeated Harley, stunned. "I don't even know you…"

"Yes, you do. We were childhood sweethearts," said Bruce.

"We were friends for three months, until you said you couldn't hang out with me anymore because I was from a lower class," said Harley.

"Don't you understand, Harley? That doesn't matter to me anymore," said Bruce. "Your class is no barrier to our union – I am willing to overlook it because of your charms. My feelings for you are stronger than the bonds of class, and I am willing to risk social rejection and mockery for you. I love you, and I want to make you my Vicomtesse. Will you have me?"

"Um…no, thank you, Bruce," said Harley slowly, pulling her hands away. "I'm kinda…seeing someone else."

Bruce stared at her. "Seeing someone else?" he repeated. Then he grew angry. "Who is he?" he demanded. "I'll duel him for you! And the best man will win you as his prize!"

"I'm not a prize, Bruce, and I'm not going to marry a man just because he wins a duel," said Harley. "Fighting over me won't change my mind, because I've made my choice, and it's not you. So…thank you, but no thank you. Great seeing you again, and best wishes for a happy life," she said, trying to steer him toward the door.

"Harley, whoever this other man is, he can't possibly compete with me," said Bruce. "I am rich, I have a unique position in society, and I would die for your love. Would this other man do that?"

"I hope not, because then loving him would be kinda pointless because he'd be dead," said Harley. "Bruce, no offense, but I'm not gonna marry a guy just because he's a wealthy aristocrat with a good position in society. I'm looking for a little more than that in my relationships, and I've found it with this other guy. So thank you, but please go…"

"He has you under some sort of spell, is that it?" demanded Bruce. "He's some sort of dark seducer who has twisted your mind! Well, never fear, Harley, I'll save you from the monster, I swear it! I'll be back in two minutes – I'm just going to tell Alfred to order the horses, and I'll be speeding you to safety in my carriage in no time! Don't go away!" he said, racing out the door.

Harley stared after him. "Wow. And they call me crazy," said the same male voice from before.

"I don't understand – didn't I make it clear to him that I'm seeing someone else?" asked Harley.

"Some guys just don't take no for an answer, toots," said the male voice. "And this guy's a real whackjob, you can tell that just by looking."

"What can I do to get him to leave me alone?" asked Harley.

"Well, I can think of one thing," said the voice, and suddenly the mirror in her dressing room slid open to reveal a dark tunnel, and a shadowy figure with a beaming smile standing there. He held out his hand. "Come with me."

Harley beamed back at him. "Gladly, Mr. J," she said, taking his hand. He pulled her into the tunnel and then slid the mirror back, leaving the room empty, and Bruce Wayne baffled and furious on his return.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hope you don't mind rats," said the Joker of the Opera, as he pulled Harley further down underground. "There are a lotta 'em down here."

"No, I don't mind them," said Harley, looking around at the darkness, pitch black except for the Joker's lantern. "Is this where you live?"

"Underneath the opera? Yeah," said Joker, nodding. "There are a ton of secret passages throughout the whole thing, so a guy like me can get around fairly quickly without being seen. You'll see when we get to the hideout – I got all kindsa systems so I can keep an eye and ear on people wherever they are in the theater. That's how I first found you crying alone in your dressing room."

"I'm really glad you did," she said. "At first I thought you were some kinda angel talking to me, maybe sent by my father to comfort me."

"Yeah, I'm no angel, toots!" chuckled the Joker. "But people in general are a cowardly, superstitious lot. If you can make it seem that you're omnipresent and omnipotent, that frightens the bejesus outta 'em. And after you do that, you can pretty much do what you want."

He stopped suddenly. "You don't get seasick, do you?" he asked.

"No. Why?" asked Harley.

"Just checking," he said, pulling her forward. Harley felt herself stepping onto a rocking surface which splashed under her weight. It was obviously a boat.

"This is the scenic route," explained Joker, climbing into the boat and punting across the lake. "There are quicker ways to get to the lair from the surface, but I thought you'd enjoy this one your first time."

"It's…absolutely beautiful," whispered Harley, seeing long, flickering candles rising up from the surface of the lake, lighting their way.

"Yeah, and I get a bargain on the rent!" chuckled Joker. "People pay _me_ to live here!"

Harley giggled, glancing behind her. She saw the distinct profile of the man known to her as Mr. J for the first time. He was tall and thin and dressed all in purple, with a wide-brimmed purple hat and purple cape over his purple suit. But the most noticeable and intriguing thing about him was that he wore a mask over his face, which covered everything except his huge, glittering smile.

The boat docked at last in a massive room, decorated with clown memorabilia everywhere. Whoopie cushions and chattering teeth lay strewn about the place, balloons twisted into shapes hung down from the ceiling, and amidst the mess of joke items, there were weapons of various kinds.

"Sorry about the mess," said the Joker. "I didn't know you were coming in advance, or I would have cleaned."

"I don't mind," said Harley, looking around. "What's that?" she asked, gesturing to a series of pipes and vents coming from a machine in the corner.

"That's how I monitor everyone in here," said Joker, beckoning her over. "Here, I'll show you. You can hear various rooms by lifting the vents, like this," he said, pulling open one of the flaps. Harley distinctly heard the voices of the new managers.

"I'm telling you, we don't need her anymore, Jervis. Miss Quinzel is a revelation, and if I may say so, a much better singer."

"But we can't just cancel Signora Ivy's contract on such short notice after nineteen seasons, Jonathan! That wouldn't be fair!"

"We're men of business now, Jervis, we don't have to be fair. I say we make Miss Quinzel our permanent star."

"Quite an honor, huh, kiddo?" chuckled Joker, closing the flap.

"Yes," said Harley, beaming. "I just can't believe everyone liked me that much. People have never liked me before."

"Well, that makes two of us, kid!" chuckled Joker. "And these bits over here are for spying too," he said, gesturing to the pipes. Harley looked through one, and she clearly saw her dressing room, with Bruce Wayne searching it desperately.

"I'd kinda feel bad for Bruce if he wasn't such a jerk," said Harley, drawing away. "But I can't help but think he's only interested in me now because I'm popular and pretty, and I just think that's kinda superficial. When we were friends as kids, I thought we'd at least keep in contact after he returned to Paris, but he never attempted to contact me again until tonight. I don't think he would be interested in me if I wasn't a star, and that's not who I am deep down inside. I don't think he could ever love me for who I really am."

"A guy like that? I don't think so either," agreed Joker. "But hey, if I were you, I'd marry him for the money and then murder him after the wedding."

"Thanks for the advice, but money doesn't matter to me," said Harley. "And like I already told him, I'm seeing someone else," she added, smiling at him. "Although…I suppose I've never really seen you before, and I'm not really now, what with the mask and all…"

"Oh yeah, the mask," said Joker, nodding. "It's…uh…just something I wear…around people because…people have been…shocked by my appearance before. People who look different can be treated…very unkindly sometimes."

"I know," said Harley, nodding. "But you can't think I would treat you unkindly, after all you've done for me."

"No, I trust you, toots," he said.

"So will you take off the mask?" asked Harley.

"Maybe later," he said. "Why doncha just have a seat and I'll get you a drink…shame you didn't bring Brucie's champagne, but I think I have some lying around here. Back in a second," he said, heading out of the room.

Harley sat down, and instantly set off one of the chattering teeth. "You have quite the collection of joke items, but I don't see a piano or anything," she commented, as the Joker emerged with two glasses of champagne. "Aren't you a musician?"

"Nah, I'm just a guy who likes pranking other people," said Joker, shrugging as he handed her the glass. "Especially people who take themselves too seriously, like Poison Ivy and Harvey Dent. They think just because they got nice voices that they can treat everyone else like dirt. So I see it as my duty to take 'em down a peg, and make 'em the punchline to some jokes for once. But you pick up bits of musical knowledge over time living underneath an opera. And I can tell when something sounds good, like your voice, toots," he said, clinking his glass against hers.

"Thank you," she said. "My father taught me to sing – he was the world's most talented violinist. But after he died…I didn't want to sing anymore. It was only after I met you and you encouraged me that I found my voice again. I know he'd have been proud of me tonight," she said, with tears in her eyes.

"He certainly would – he raised one helluva singer," said Joker, nodding. "I'm also a guy who hates seeing talent and potential being wasted. And when I heard you singing to yourself, I knew you were destined for greater things. If I helped in my own small way by threatening people with violence and driving rivals away, it's really the least I could do. Plus I was gonna do it anyway, because it's fun," he added. "I'm kinda a born entertainer – not in terms of singing, like you, but in terms of comedy. And this way I don't waste my potential either."

"Is there any reason you don't pursue your own career in comedy instead of hanging around here in the shadows?" asked Harley. "Does it have to do with the mask?"

Joker nodded. "I…have kinda an unusual appearance. I mean, it's good for comedy, actually, but…it usually…scares people off instead of making 'em laugh. A lotta people are scared of…I mean, it's not true what they say, that everybody loves a…"

He trailed off. "More champagne?" he asked, holding up the bottle.

"You're really not going to let me see your face?" asked Harley.

He sighed. "I just…don't want you to be frightened off, kid," he said. "These past few months, talking to you, I've just…felt really happy. I don't wanna lose that happiness."

"Mr. J, you don't need to worry about me," said Harley. "I ain't superficial, you should know that by now. Otherwise I woulda gone with Brucie and his fine horses. If I've trusted you enough to come all the way down here alone with you, you should trust me enough to show me your face."

"Yeah…maybe later," he repeated. "How about some ice cream? Do you like ice cream? I'll see if I can go find some."

Harley nodded slowly. "I'll come with you," she said, putting down the glass and following him into the kitchen.

"It's easy to keep things cool down here – the hard thing is keeping 'em away from the rats," said Joker, opening a long, metal box in the corner. "But they can't chew through metal. The bowls are just in that cupboard," he said, nodding.

"This place is almost like a real home," commented Harley, taking out the dishes.

"Yeah, I try to live as normally as possible – leave the theatricals for the audience upstairs," he said. "This is my little sanctuary down here, where I can just relax and be myself and not have to feel like I'm performing all the time."

"And yet you're still wearing the mask," commented Harley.

"One scoop or two?" asked Joker, ignoring her and holding up a spoon.

"Two, please," said Harley. She watched him concentrating as he scooped the ice cream into the bowls, then suddenly snuck up behind him and tore his mask away.

"Jesus, what the hell?!" he exclaimed, rounding on her. "What kinda horrible house-guest are you, sneaking up on me when my back is turned and then just ripping stuff offa me?! You know, in a more civilized time, I could sue you for assault!"

Harley was too stunned to respond, staring back at him in astonishment. His face was bone white, with wide red lips surrounding his mouth, and piercing green eyes glaring at her in fury. His hair was also bright green, and his whole appearance resembled a clown.

He snatched the mask back from her, replacing it. "Well, now you've seen my face," he snapped. "So maybe you understand why I wear this now."

"No," said Harley, quietly. "I don't."

He turned to her. "You're beautiful," she said, staring at him. "Absolutely beautiful. The most beautiful man I have ever seen, so unique and so special. I've never been…more attracted to a face before in my life."

He stared at her. "Is this some kinda joke?" he demanded.

"It's no joke," she said, approaching him again. "After all you've done for me, all our talks and secrets, and all the wonderful things you've made me feel, you couldn't be anything else but beautiful to me. And you are. You might not believe that, but…I didn't believe my voice was beautiful a few months ago. And tonight the world saw that it was. And tonight I've seen…how beautiful you are," she whispered, gently pulling his mask off again. "If you could see yourself through my eyes…you'd know. If the world could see you through my eyes, they'd know too."

"I…don't want the world to know," he murmured, tentatively sliding his arms around her waist. "I learned a long time ago not to care what the world thinks about me…but I do care…what _you_ think about me. I care a lot."

"Well, lemme show you what I think about you," she whispered, bringing her lips up to his. She kissed him tenderly and he returned it, pressing his mouth into hers with quiet desperation. She responded to his passion, bringing her hands up to caress his face, their lips never separating.

"You…still want ice cream?" he asked, when they drew away at last.

"Nah uh," she whispered, grinning. "I just wanna know which way your bedroom is."

He chuckled, lifting her off her feet and into his arms. "Right this way, my little clown of music!"

"Clown of music?" repeated Harley, as he carried her into the bedroom.

"If you rework your name, it becomes Harley Quinn," he said. "I took that as a sign when we first met that…you were kinda special, a clown like me. It's silly, but…"

"No, I like it," she said, grinning at him. "That can be my stage name now that I'm a star – Harley Quinn. You're a genius, puddin'," she said, kissing him as he lay her gently down on the bed.

"Puddin'?" he repeated, pausing in his kisses.

"If you can give me a new name, why can't I give you one?" asked Harley.

"You already did – Mr. J," he snapped. "I can't be called 'puddin'' – that negates my carefully crafted and threateningly mysterious image!"

"Ok," sighed Harley, sitting up. "I guess I'll just go then…"

He growled, and pulled her back down onto the bed. "Fine. Puddin' it is," he muttered. "But only in private, and never when I'm pranking the others. Unless it's with pudding."

"Deal, puddin'," she whispered, smiling and pulling him down on top of her.


	5. Chapter 5

Harley awoke the next day to find herself wrapped in several layers of blankets, which was good, because the air was cold and she was naked. But she felt safe and cozy in the bed, and sighed contentedly, curling up into the warmth.

"Good morning," said a familiar voice.

She opened her eyes and smiled up at the man standing by her bedside. "Good morning," she said, yawning and stretching. "Have you been awake long?"

"Long enough to deliver a few letters, and make some breakfast," he said, holding out a plate to her. "I hope you like waffles."

"Who doesn't?" said Harley, grinning as she took the plate.

"Keep the covers on – it's chilly down here," he said, picking up another blanket and draping it over her shoulders. She caught his arm, and then gently drew his face down to kiss her.

"Good waffles, puddin'," she murmured. "Between that and last night, are there any other exceptional talents of yours I should know about?"

He chuckled, joining her in bed and kissing her again. "Well, you asked if I was musical, and I gotta confess, I'm not a bad hand at playing the harmonica."

"I coulda guessed, with that skilled tongue of yours," she purred, kissing him deeply.

"You…still want waffles?" he asked, returning the kisses.

"Yeah, I should eat something," she said, breaking away reluctantly. "Can't go to rehearsals on an empty stomach."

She ate a piece of waffle, chewing thoughtfully. "I really hope Brucie took the hint last night and won't keep bothering me at the opera. It's kinda awkward since he's our patron and all – I can't just tell him to leave."

"I sent him a letter this morning ordering him to stop bothering you, toots," said Joker, nodding. "If he keeps it up, come straight to me, and I'll sort him out."

"Mmm, he wouldn't be the first person you've driven away from the opera," murmured Harley, kissing him. "Speaking of which, do you think Signora Ivy will be back today?"

"Probably," said Joker. "I sent her a letter telling her not to bother, since you're the prima donna in residence now. But she doesn't take people telling her what to do well. I might be forced to take extreme measures with her. But we'll see," he said, shrugging. "I know Craney's batting on your team, so maybe he'll convince Tetchy to tell her to take a hike. I've certainly expressed that desire in my letters to them."

"How do you deliver letters to people?" asked Harley.

"Usually through Madame Leland, if I don't just leave them in obvious places like the managers' office," he said. "She's a nice person – we met when I was traveling in a freak show as the clown-faced man. She helped me get outta there, and let me stay in the opera temporarily…I just decided to extend my lease!" he chuckled.

"I'm sorry you had to endure being in a freak show," said Harley. "That must have been awful."

"Yeah, it was," he agreed, nodding. "Nobody ever laughed at my jokes – they just jeered and spat at me. Really tough audiences for comedy purposes. But then I've discovered that most people don't really have a sense of humor. Present company excepted, of course," he added, kissing her.

"Well, I am your clown of music, aren't I?" asked Harley, grinning. "I gotta have a sense of humor – comes with the title."

"Mmm, and you do, my little Harley Quinn," he said, kissing her again. "Eat your waffles now, and then we'll…"

"Have a little playtime?" suggested Harley, eagerly.

"I was gonna say head back upstairs, but we can have playtime first if you want, you greedy little minx," he chuckled. "Can't take too long, though - those two fools who run my theater will be missing you."

…

Bruce Wayne stormed backstage, a letter clutched in his hand. The area was empty, except for a man adjusting the backdrops. "You there!" snapped Bruce. "Where are the managers? I need to speak to them at once!"

"They would be in the managers' office," retorted the man. "Obviously. Why have you come back here when it's common sense to check there first? Riddle me that."

"I don't have to answer any riddles!" snapped Bruce. "I'm the Vicomte Bruce Wayne, and you're just some…handyman!"

"My name is Edward Nygma," said the man. "I'm not just some handyman – I'm in charge of the whole backstage area because I'm the only one intelligent enough to know how all this technology operates."

"I don't care who you are," retorted Bruce. "I just need to speak to the managers at once about this sick practical joke of theirs! I could tell that Crane was sweet on Miss Quinzel, but I never thought he'd stoop so low as to actually steal her away last night from under my nose, and then threaten me to keep away from her!"

"Monsieur Crane left shortly after the show ended," said Nygma, folding up the backdrop. "Miss Quinzel probably hadn't even finished getting changed at that point, what with all her numerous curtain calls. It's very unlikely he had time to steal her away."

"Well, if he didn't write this, who did?" demanded Bruce, shoving the letter at him.

Nygma scanned it. "My guess would be the Joker," he said. "Because that's who signed it and all. Again, a completely obvious answer to your completely obvious question…"

"Are you telling me this Joker is a real person?" asked Bruce.

"Oh yes, he's very real," said Nygma, nodding. "Always skulking around my backstage area and messing with my sets and props. One of these days I'm going to catch him in the act and beat his face in with a hammer. But he's usually too cunning to be seen, even by me. One of these days, though, I'll find out where exactly he lives and hit him where it hurts. Underneath the opera house, obviously, but there are so many passages to search…"

"Are you telling me there's some sort of lunatic living underneath this opera house?" demanded Bruce.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you," replied Nygma, nodding. "He's a real psychopath – if Miss Quinzel's involved with him, I'd advise you to stay away from her, for your own safety. He has a particularly nasty temper when pushed."

"Then this lunatic…this Joker…must have kidnapped Miss Quinzel last night!" gasped Bruce. "That's the only explanation for her sudden disappearance! And now he's holding the poor girl against her will in some dank, drafty chamber, helpless and terrified…I have to see the managers at once!" he exclaimed, racing out of the auditorium.

Nygma shook his head, returning to his work and sighing. "I have a riddle for you, Edward Nygma – what do you call a man who talks about things he shouldn't?" said a soft voice. "Soon to be dead."

Nygma looked up to see Madame Leland looking at him. He snorted contemptuously. "Madame, not even the Joker knows this opera house better than me. Let him do his worst. I'm not afraid of him, I'm infinitely more intelligent than him, and I'm prepared for anything."

"I hope you're right, Monsieur Nygma," murmured Madame Leland, following Bruce to the managers' office. "I truly hope you are."


	6. Chapter 6

Meanwhile, in the managers' office, both Crane and Tetch were reading with similar astonishment their respective notes from the Joker. "Do you still want to support Miss Quinzel when we're ordered to by some bullying maniac?" asked Tetch.

Crane shook his head. "No, we can't give into his demands, or we'll be bullied forever by him. Believe me, I've dealt with bullies before. The only way to make them stop is to stand up to them. We should ask Signora Ivy back."

"You don't ask me back – I choose to come back of my own volition!" snapped a voice. They looked up to see Signora Ivy storming into the room, closely followed by Signor Dent.

"Signora Ivy, I can't tell you how glad we are to see you…" began Crane.

"Skip it!" snapped Ivy. "I know you both want the little brat Quinzel to replace me as prima donna, but I'm not going to allow that! This is my opera house! Mine!"

"Actually, it's ours, and we paid good money for it," said Crane.

"You idiots don't even deserve Signora Ivy's greatness!" snapped Dent. "You insulted her with your ridiculous pranks, and you replaced her with some pathetic little nobody who you're trying to turn into a star! I'm not going to stand by and let it happen!"

"Harvey, darling, I'll handle this," said Ivy, shoving him out of the way. "You don't even deserve my greatness!" she shrieked. "You insult me with ridiculous pranks, and replace me with some pathetic little nobody who you're trying to turn into a star! I'm not going to stand by and let it happen!"

"I can assure you, we had nothing to do with that prank, and we're not trying to replace you," said Tetch. "Jonathan and I were just saying that we desperately hoped you'd come back so we can begin rehearsals for _Die Fledermaus_ with you in the starring role…"

"Then how do you explain this?" demanded Ivy, shoving a note at him.

Tetch read the note aloud: " _Poison Ivy, you're a dried up weed with no talent and no pitch – get off the stage before the rest of the world realizes it, or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. Happy trails, the Joker_."

"We received similar notes this morning," said Crane, holding up theirs. " _Craney – Miss Quinzel is never going to sleep with you, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't help her out. You at least recognize her talent, so give her the starring role in the next production, or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. Hugs and kisses, the Joker_."

" _Tetchy – You clearly have no musical taste if you're a fan of Poison Ivy – get rid of the weed before she spreads a rash, and replace her with Miss Quinzel. And pay me my salary ASAP or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. 2 Good 2 Be 4 Forgotten, the Joker_ ," read Tetch, reciting his.

" _Bruce Wayne – Harley made it perfectly clear to you last night that she wants nothing to do with you. Respect her wishes and leave her alone, or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. Lots of love, the Joker_ ," said Bruce, storming into the room reading his. "He didn't even address me by my title, the insolence!" he snapped.

"Let me see that," said Tetch, taking the notes and comparing them. "They're all written in the same handwriting."

"Yes. And obviously the product of a puerile brain," commented Crane. "Also, judging by the loops and swirls in the handwriting, it's plain to see that the writer is clearly quite insane."

"I can see that from the note itself, not the handwriting!" snapped Bruce. "I need to know where this Joker lives – he has kidnapped Miss Quinzel, and I need to rescue her!"

"Kidnapped?" repeated Crane, aghast. "But how? When?"

"How unfortunate," said Ivy, insincerely. "If she's been kidnapped, she can't sing. Oh well, guess Ivy is just going to have to do what she does best…"

"Monsieur Crane, Monsieur Tetch, I thought you would like to know that Miss Quinzel has just arrived in her dressing room and is changing for tonight's rehearsal," said Madame Leland, entering the room.

"Oh. So she's not been kidnapped," said Crane.

"She was!" exclaimed Bruce. "I was speaking to her last night, left to ready my horses, and when I returned, she had disappeared! And then I get this note from this lunatic, who's undoubtedly holding her for ransom…"

"If he's holding her for ransom, why is she back?" asked Tetch.

"How should I know?! I don't know how the maniac's mind works!" snapped Bruce. "Maybe this is some sort of game he's playing with us, using Miss Quinzel as bait…"

"She's not changing into my costume, is she?" demanded Ivy, her eyes flashing. "I am still prima donna here, and I am rehearsing the starring role tonight!"

"I…was under the impression that…the managers had received orders to…give the starring role to Miss Quinzel," said Madame Leland, slowly.

"Yes, and we don't negotiate with terrorists!" snapped Crane. "Signora Ivy is prima donna here, and will be playing the lead!"

"You know what, I don't even want the lead anymore!" snapped Ivy, storming toward the door. "You let the little whore keep it – my talent is limitless, and I can do so much better than this dump of an opera! Come along, Harvey!"

"Now Signora Ivy, let's not be hasty," said Tetch, racing after her. "After all, your public needs you…"

"And we need you too," added Crane.

"I don't care what you both need – I was snubbed and made a fool of, and now I'm taking my talents elsewhere!" snapped Ivy, heading out the door.

"Signor Dent, please, you have to stop her!" exclaimed Tetch.

Dent rolled his eyes. "Kneel down, apologize, and beg," he muttered.

"What?" said Tetch.

"Kneel down, apologize, and beg," repeated Dent, following his own advice. "It's what I have to do whenever I've done something wrong."

"I'm most certainly not…" began Crane.

"Just do it, Jonathan!" snapped Tetch, grabbing him and forcing him down next to him. "Signora Ivy, we're sorry for whatever we've done to offend you. But now we're on our knees to implore you! Just think of how the public adores you, how it shouts your name for curtain call after curtain call! Think of your muse! Can you deny us, or yourself, the triumph in store?"

Ivy stopped, and turned around slowly to see all three of them kneeling. "I suppose…I do have a public who needs me," she conceded. "I can't disappoint them. And I am nothing if not magnanimous and forgiving."

"It's one of your best qualities, my love," said Dent, kissing her hands. "Of course, all your qualities are your best."

"Yes, all right, get up," said Ivy. "I suppose I can light up the stage again, for the sake of my art. This prima donna will sing once more."

"Never mind all that – I need to see Miss Quinzel at once," said Bruce, heading for the door. "To see that the monster hasn't harmed her…"

"Monsieur le Vicomte, forgive me, but she has given the strictest instructions that she is to receive no visitors," said Madame Leland, stepping in front of him.

"The poor girl – she's probably so traumatized from her experience that she wishes to be alone, prostrate with grief," sighed Bruce. "I shall respect her wishes, of course, and give her time to compose herself. She'll be better tomorrow, won't she?"

"I…do not know, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Madame Leland, slowly. "I would advise leaving her alone…"

"Nonsense! I'm not going to leave my future wife alone!" snapped Bruce. "I am going to save her, and take her far, far away from this horrible opera with its madmen running all over the place, kidnapping maidens and writing insane notes! She'll be carried away safely to my chateau, and we'll be married before the end of the year, or my name isn't Victome Bruce Wayne! Good day, everyone!" he said, storming from the room. He was followed shortly after by Madame Leland, Ivy, and Dent, leaving Crane and Tetch alone.

"So…let's look at the facts of the case," said Crane, slowly. "We have Miss Quinzel being promoted by a maniac who threatens us with notes and plays violent pranks on others. We have our patron the Vicomte Bruce Wayne who will stop at nothing to rescue Miss Quinzel from said maniac. We have said maniac demanding that Miss Quinzel stars in our new production, and we are ignoring him in favor of Signora Ivy, for which he has threatened us with a disaster beyond imagination. When looking at it that way, I think our first day here was actually better than our second day, Jervis. At least I didn't hurt my knees yesterday," he hissed, rubbing them.

"Yes," sighed Tetch. "You know, you'd never get away with all this in a play, but if it's loudly sung and in a foreign tongue, it's just the sort of story audiences adore, in fact, perfect opera."


	7. Chapter 7

"Man, the managers are gonna be sorry they didn't do what the Joker wanted," said J.J., shaking his head at the pause in the story.

"Yeah, everyone always is," agreed Joker.

"I really hope you don't hurt Aunt Ivy's character too badly as revenge," continued J.J. "She's not done anything that wrong, after all – just stood up for her job when someone tried to take it away from her…"

"J.J., she's a horrible, mean, bullying woman in this," interrupted Arleen. "I mean, that's no crime, but she's certainly not innocent."

"Well, neither is Mom's character, using the Joker's reputation and influence to get ahead," retorted J.J.

"Hey, I didn't do that in the story or in real life!" snapped Harley. "It was true love! Same as in this story! And if the guy I fell in love with just happens to be someone with a lotta power and influence who wants to help me out, that's just a nice bonus! It shows he really cares by threatening to hurt people for me!"

"The one I hope gets hurt is Bruce Wayne," said Arleen. "He's really annoying in this, and something tells me he's not going to respect Harley's wishes to leave her alone."

"Nope, he's still got a lotta trouble to cause," said Joker, nodding. "That's what happens when people try to be all heroic – they dive headfirst into things that aren't any of their business and end up screwing up everything. This is why you should never think of yourself as a hero, kiddies. You start acting in what you think are other people's best interests, for the greater good. And when you start speaking for others, you ignore their voices and just start putting words in their mouths, usually words that you just wanna hear. I've never met a so-called hero without a lot of personal issues that they choose to ignore, trying to fix the outside world instead of confronting their problems inside. That's all a hero is – someone who tries to interfere in other people's lives because they're too scared to fix their own."

"Yeah, I never thought much of heroes in stories," said Arleen, nodding.

"Then I raised you right, princess," said Joker, kissing her cheek. "Now let's see, where were we? Oh yes, the disaster beyond imagination."

It was once again opening night, this time of the new production of _Die Fledermaus._ Signora Ivy starred, and looked out at the packed crowds of admirers with a smug expression as she belted out her aria.

Bruce Wayne was seated in Box Five, the only seat available in an otherwise sold-out performance. He was annoyed that he hadn't seen Harley from the last premiere to this. He couldn't conceive of the idea that she was avoiding him, although that was exactly what she was doing, leaving straight from rehearsals to lock herself in her dressing room, and then sneaking through her mirror to be with the Joker. But Bruce assumed she was merely being kept from him by the Joker, and being held against her will by him. Bruce was determined to catch her right after tonight's performance – he was going to be backstage the moment the curtain fell.

He suddenly heard a voice behind him. "Scuse me, pal, but I believe this seat is taken."

Bruce whirled around, but the box appeared to be empty. "Where are you, monster?" he demanded. "Show yourself!"

"I don't have to do anything you ask of me, rich boy," snapped the voice. "Because you didn't do the one thing I asked of you, which was to leave Harley alone."

"You can't win her love by making her your prisoner!" snapped Bruce.

"I'm not making her a prisoner, and I already have her love!" snapped back the voice. "Which is why I want you to beat it! She doesn't want to be bothered by you anymore!"

"Why don't we let Harley decide that, and make her choice?" asked Bruce.

"She already has, and it's me!" snapped the voice.

"She's not in her right mind, anyone can see that!" retorted Bruce. "You've twisted it somehow, hypnotized her, got her under some kind of spell! That's the only explanation!"

"For what?" the voice demanded. "For having her pick a guy she actually relates to rather than some rich snob? Here's a news flash for you, Brucie – not all women prefer handsome and rich over style and substance! What, you think just because she's got a pretty face that she wants to be with a pretty boy?! You think attractive people should just automatically belong together? Harley's not that superficial!"

"Don't pretend you know her!" retorted Bruce.

"I _do_ know her, a helluva lot better than you do!" snapped the voice. "You knew her when she was a kid for like three weeks, and then just left her! I've been here for her constantly since her father died…"

"So that's it!" hissed Bruce. "You've convinced her you're some manifestation of her father, returned from beyond the grave, and she's so blinded that she can't see who you really are!"

"Ok, first off, that would be really creepy," snapped the voice. "I dunno what you're trying to say about Harley and her father, but trust me, we don't have that kinda relationship! She's seen who I am, and she accepts that! You should too!"

"Never!" hissed Bruce. "I will save her from you, even if I have to die trying!"

The voice sighed. "Too thick to accept the truth. All right, if you want a war, you got it. I tried to do this the easy way, but you're forcing my hand. And this hand has got a Joker in the deck."

Signora Ivy was in the middle of her song when a high-pitched, hysterical laugh interrupted her. The laugh seemed to come from everywhere at once - every corner of the opera rang with the sound.

"What the hell is that?" hissed Ivy on stage, in the dead silence after it stopped.

"It's Mr. J," murmured Harley, beaming as she stood with the rest of the chorus. "It's the Joker."

"Nobody asked you, you little brat!" snapped Ivy, pointing her. "Just shut up and stay silent before you embarrass yourself!"

"Oh, Ivy, haven't you heard the expression when you point at someone, you've got three fingers pointing back at yourself?" chuckled the voice. "So I wonder who's really gonna embarrass themselves tonight."

"Shut up!" shrieked Ivy.

"Really? That's the best retort you got?" sighed the voice. "That's not even on the basic, 'I know you are, but what am I?' level, which is probably what I would have gone with."

Harley giggled, and Ivy's fury grew. "Listen, you idiot, wherever you are, I'm not afraid of you!" she shrieked out into the audience. "And if you think you're going to frighten me away so you can give my job to your little whore who thinks every ridiculous joke you spout is funny, then you must be crazy!"

There was dead silence after this. And then the laughter returned. "I sure am, Poison Ivy!" it chuckled. "Crazy as a loon!"

Ivy ignored him, gesturing to the conductor. "We'll just start again from the last stanza. Without interruptions from the peanut gallery," she snapped, glaring at Harley.

Ivy began the song again, repeating her movements where she raised a glass, and then sat down at a table. And she suddenly stopped singing when a noise rang through the opera house. It was the sound of a whoopie cushion.

The Joker's hysterical giggle rose over the stunned silence. "It's…not funny!" hissed Ivy, standing up and removing the whoopie cushion from her chair. "And it's not going to stop me…"

She sat down in a different chair, with the same result. Then she stood up, continuing the song without sitting down, but her voice suddenly caught in her throat, and the only sound that came out was the sound of a whoopie cushion.

She froze, her eyes wide in shock and fear, then she cleared her throat and started again, with the same result. Her voice died in a loud, ugly raspberry that echoed around the auditorium.

"It's not possible!" gasped Ivy. "Not possible – my voice is perfect…" Her words were cut off by another splatting sound escaping her mouth.

"Watch your heads, folks! Her singing's so bad, it's gonna bring down the chandelier!" laughed the Joker's voice, as the chandelier at the roof of the theater swayed dangerously.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the…technical difficulties," stammered Crane, suddenly leaping to his feet in his box. "The performance will continue in ten minutes time, when the starring role will be played by Miss Harleen Quinzel," he said, ushering her off the stage to go change.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, please…do not panic!" gasped Tetch, who had run all the way from the box to the stage. "There's absolutely no reason…to panic…because everything is fine…this is all just a slight hitch…nothing at all to worry about."

He looked around at the stage where the performers stood dumbly, and then turned to see the audience staring back at him. "I see…we'll need something to fill the time until Miss Quinzel is ready to resume," he said, slowly. "Well…um…how many of you have read Mr. Carroll's delightful work _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ and its equally delightful sequel, _Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There_? Any of you? No? Well, there's a fascinating bit of poetry in it – let me recite it for you now…"

"Oh God, not the poetry, Jervis!" hissed Crane, racing out of the box after him. "Anything but the poetry!"

Meanwhile, Edward Nygma had climbed up to inspect the chandelier after its precarious shaking. When he reached the chamber in the ceiling just above it, he saw that the ropes holding it up had been cut, and that it now hung by a thread.

"Think you can cause accidents in my opera house, Joker?" he growled, reaching down to tie the ropes together again. "Over my dead body."

"That can certainly be arranged, Eddie," chuckled a voice. "Riddle me this: what comes with a long drop and a short stop?"

Nygma suddenly felt something constrict around his neck, pulling tighter and tighter as he flailed against it…

"'It seems a shame," the Walrus said, 'To play them such a trick, after we've brought them out so far, and made them trot so quick!' The Carpenter said nothing but 'The butter's spread too thick!'" Tetch was in the middle of his recitation, when he suddenly noticed the chandelier swaying again. And he stopped reciting as his heart plummeted in horror to see a body drop from the room above, snapping to a stop as the noose around its neck pulled taut.

"Good God, it's Nygma!" gasped Crane, who had raced onto the stage at that moment.

And as if that wasn't enough horror, they heard a snap, and then the chandelier, with Nygma's body attached, suddenly plummeted down, down, down into the audience. It crushed several rows of people as the panicking and screaming started, and above all the chaos rose the Joker's hysterical, maniacal laugh.

Bruce Wayne had raced backstage the instant the chandelier fell. He suddenly burst into Harley's dressing room, full of concern. "Miss Quinzel, are you hurt?"

"Jesus, Bruce, don't just barge into a lady's dressing room!" shrieked Harley, regretting her haste in not locking the door as she ducked behind a screen. "I need to get changed quickly so I can get back out there!"

"You won't be going back out – there's been an accident," said Bruce. "A terrible accident – Mr. Nygma has been hanged, and the chandelier has crashed into the audience. Though I suspect both of those events are no more accidents than Miss Ivy's poor singing was. The Joker's responsible for all of it, and I'm getting you away from him before he can hurt you," he said, seizing her arm.

"You're doing no such thing!" snapped Harley, wrenching herself away from him. "First of all, he's not going to hurt me – he loves me! And second of all, even if I wanted to leave, I certainly wouldn't be going with you, Bruce! In case you didn't get the hint all those times I was unavailable and couldn't see you, I don't want to have anything to do with you!"

"Harley, that's not you talking, it's the monster!" said Bruce. "He's poisoned your mind, twisted your words, corrupted your thoughts! You don't even know what to think or say anymore…"

"Oh, I got a few choice phrases in mind right now, believe me!" growled Harley.

"Harley, please wake up and realize what he is!" cried Bruce. "This man, this thing is not your father! He's a cruel, horrible, twisted, insane, deformed maniac! And he's trying to turn you into a lunatic too! You mustn't let him influence you anymore!"

"Bruce, I've tried to be nice, but I'm all outta patience with you!" snapped Harley. "You're just not listening to me, so I'm gonna make things as simple as possible for you! The Joker and I are in love, we're very happy together, and nothing you say or do is going to change that! So please just leave us alone! If you don't, Mr. J is gonna hurt you, and I'm not gonna stop him! So for old time's sake, for our friendship's sake, please respect my wishes and leave me and Mr. J to be happy together!"

Bruce stared at her. "There has to be some way," he murmured. "Some way to break the spell he's got over you…"

An idea struck him, and he suddenly seized her in his arms and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. He was shocked when Harley responded by punching him across the face.

"You're just not getting it!" she shrieked. "Look, pal, I'm not interested in you, ok?! Just leave us alone, jerk, or I swear I'll kill you myself! Now get outta my dressing room and outta my life forever!" she screamed, shoving him out the door and slamming it. He heard it lock a second later, and just looked at it, stunned by what had happened.

"Obviously true love's kiss won't break the spell," he murmured. "Then there's only one thing for it. I must end the monster who cast the spell in the first place. I must kill the Joker."


	8. Chapter 8

Jonathan Crane put down the bill indicating the cost of the damage repair with a heavy sigh, burying his face in his hands. "It's going to cost double what we paid for this place to fix it up and get a new chandelier," he muttered. "Do me a favor, Jervis – remind me never to listen to your bright ideas, like going halves on an opera house, ever again."

"Noted," sighed Tetch, who was scanning the coroner's report of the casualties from the chandelier crash and ensuing panic. "But the big question is what are we going to do now? How are we going to salvage the reputation of this opera house after this mess? And what are we going to do about the Joker?"

"I don't think there's anything we can do about him except do as he says," sighed Crane. "We can't risk rousing his wrath again – who knows what the death toll might be next time, as well as the expense? It might not be so bad obeying him, after all. Nothing he's demanded so far has been too crazy. Except his salary, but he's already cost us much more than that. Following his instructions might actually result in a saving in the long run."

"That does seem like the sensible option," agreed Tetch, reluctantly.

"There's no point in being sensible when you're dealing with a lunatic," snapped a familiar voice.

"Monsieur le Vicomte Wayne, what a…pleasant surprise," said Crane, hoping he didn't sound too insincere. "You know, when you offered your patronage to the opera, I was expecting it more to be an honorary position rather than you actively taking any kind of role in its direction…"

"Miss Quinzel needs me to take an active role," snapped Bruce. "And so do you. You can't just capitulate to the madman like this. What happens when his demands get more insane, which they're bound to? Lunatics have no sense of boundaries or self-discipline – once you give into him, he'll just keep pushing you, and he'll never stop. Unless we stop him first."

"Are you suggesting we attempt to catch a man who knows this opera house inside and out?" demanded Crane. "We'll never be able to find him!"

"We don't have to," retorted Bruce. "We just have to lure him out. And there's someone here who will always be able to do that. Someone here he's very focused on, and whose performances he wouldn't miss."

"Are you saying we should use Miss Quinzel as bait?" demanded Tetch. "We wouldn't be very responsible employers if we advocated putting our employee in danger like that. And you obviously wouldn't be very concerned about her safety – suppose you fail to catch him and the monster hurts her as revenge?"

"I won't fail," snapped Bruce. "I know what I'm doing."

"What exactly is your plan to stop the Joker?" asked Crane.

"We let Miss Quinzel star in the next production," said Bruce. "Then we'll stage an on-stage accident of our own, one which puts Miss Quinzel in danger. The Joker will be watching, and will undoubtedly swoop to her rescue, at which point we'll surround him and kill him."

"Kill him?" repeated Tetch. "Why not just hand him in to the authorities…"

"You actually think a maniac like that will come quietly?" interrupted Bruce. "You think he'll just cooperate, rather than kill more people in an effort to escape? He has no regard for human life, and we should have none for his. We must kill him, and free Miss Quinzel's mind from the madness he has infected her with. For her own sake, as well as ours."

"Jervis is right – we can't condone putting Miss Quinzel in danger like that," said Crane. "Anyway, what if the Joker isn't watching, and Miss Quinzel actually gets hurt as the result of this accident? There are too many uncertain variables in this plan, and I can't approve of it."

"No one's asking for your approval, Crane," snapped Bruce. "I'm financing this damn opera, and if you refuse to cooperate with me, I'll pull the plug on your finances. Which is the last thing you need after all the cleaning up you have to do from the Joker's latest prank."

"But Monsieur le Vicomte, this is terribly reckless and dangerous," said Tetch. "Something could go horribly wrong…"

"Something _has_ gone horribly wrong!" snapped Bruce. "In case you didn't notice, the opera's been heavily damaged and dozens of innocent people have been killed! And Miss Quinzel can see nothing wrong with that – she claims to love the murderer! She must be saved from him, before he can destroy her sanity entirely! Sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures, and this is one of those times!"

"But maybe if we just sat down and thought about it, we could come up with a different, better plan," said Tetch. "One a little more carefully considered, and taking proper consideration of all the risks involved…"

"Are you criticizing my plan, Tetch?" demanded Bruce.

"Well…yes," said Tetch, slowly. "Not criticizing, just thinking it could use a few changes, like the whole using Miss Quinzel as bait idea…"

"This is the only way," snapped Bruce. "I've done enough thinking about it. I'm a man of action, Tetch, and what I say goes. You're welcome to leave this opera house if you don't have the stomach for this work, but don't think for instant that you'll be getting any of your money back that you've invested into this place. And don't think that you'll ever be able to work in the arts again – I have friends in high places who will see to it that you won't. Same goes for you, Crane."

"But Monsier le Vicomte, surely if you love Miss Quinzel as you claim, your first consideration should be her safety?" asked Crane.

"Are you questioning my love for Miss Quinzel?" demanded Bruce.

"If you intend to use her as bait and place her in a highly dangerous situation to catch a criminal lunatic, then quite frankly, yes," replied Crane. "I care about her, and I would never even dream of doing such a thing…"

"You don't care about her enough to take her out of the hands of a psychotic maniac by any means necessary!" shouted Bruce. "She's under that creature's power, and God knows what he's doing to her to take advantage of it! Any risk is worth saving her from a fate worse than death, to be repeatedly defiled at the hands of that monster! I will not stand idly by and consider alternate plans while I let it happen! You do what you feel is right – if that's resign, then so be it. I don't need your help or cooperation. Sometimes if you want to do the right thing, you have to do it alone."

He turned and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him. Tetch and Crane stared after him in silence for a long while. "Seriously, I'm never listening to you again," snapped Crane at last.

"That's fair," sighed Tetch. "I should have stuck with my dream of owning a hat shop. I doubt that would have been crawling with maniacs. Though if it were, I think a good name for a lunatic hanging about a hat shop would be the Mad Hatter. What do you think?"

"I think this isn't going to end well for either of us," sighed Crane. "Nor indeed, for Monsieur le Vicomte Wayne, although he's too blind to see it."

"Yes," agreed Tetch, nodding. "So-called heroes always are. Some would say they're blind as a bat."


	9. Chapter 9

"Is that meant to be a thinly veiled reference to Bruce Wayne being Batman?" asked J.J., interrupting the story again. "Why do you keep casting him as that, Dad?"

"Because I think it's a good joke," said Joker, shrugging. "Obviously it's not true, but think about it – imagine little Bruce Wayne, distraught over the death of his parents, and suddenly he seizes upon this idea to dress up as a bat and fight crime. Imagine if the whole Batman thing was some giant coping mechanism so that he doesn't have to face the reality of his parents' deaths. Imagine that this whole difficult life that he's made for himself could be solved by a good shrink. But instead he wastes his money and youth and time trying to fix an unfixable problem, like ending crime in Gotham. I think it's a hilarious joke."

"And I think it's too unbelievable to even _be_ a joke," retorted Harley. "Every good joke has a kernel of truth."

"You think you're some kinda comedy expert now?" demanded Joker, rounding on her. "If you analyze a joke, you ruin it, everyone knows that. Funny comes from the gut – you laugh without thinking about it. If you have to think about a joke, there is no joke. Just like if you have to explain the joke."

"All I'm saying is I sometimes like my comedy a little more on the realistic side," said Harley, shrugging. "Like satire. Something that appeals to the mind and the gut."

"See, this is what they do to you in shrink school," sighed Joker, shaking his head. "They ruin comedy. Make it so you can't see the funny side in basic stuff, and change your brain so you feel the need to see everything as being complex and multi-layered. Don't ever let education ruin comedy for you, kiddos."

"Hey, I take my formal education as a joke anyway," said J.J., shrugging. "Once I get my company going, I'll make a fortune, and you don't even need a formal education if you're rich. Or even a brain, judging by Bruce Wayne in this story."

"So you don't want me to be a doctor like Mom when I grow up, Dad?" asked Arleen.

"You can be whatever you wanna be, princess," said Joker. "Just never forget who you are. You're the Joker's daughter, and you were born with an innate and excellent sense of humor, despite getting half your genes from your mother. Heck, if you wanna be a lunatic who haunts an opera house, you got my full blessing."

"I can't help but feel that that would be a fairly dead end career option," said Arleen. "In more ways than one."

"Oh, don't you worry, sweetness!" chuckled Joker. "The Joker of the Opera has got some tricks up his sleeve yet! So anyway, Brucie's ridiculous plan was reluctantly agreed to, and he set to work putting it into effect. First of all, he chose the next opera they were going to rehearse, a pet project of his he had written."

" _The Batman Triumphant_?" asked Signor Dent, reading the title in confusion. "I've never heard of this opera before."

"It's new," said Tetch, forcing a smile as he handed out the scores. "A creative effort from our very own patron, the Vicomte Bruce Wayne. It's about a wealthy young nobleman who dedicates his life to fighting costumed lunatics while dressed in a bat costume. I'm assured it's not intentionally autobiographical, although the Batman's alter ego is named Bruce Wayne."

"It's honestly not the most nonsensical plot for an opera out there," said Crane. "The Vicomte did specify the roles he wants everyone to portray – Signor Dent will be the Batman, and Miss Quinzel will be the starring female role, the Batman's love interest, a character called Harley Quinn. The Batman has to save her from the machinations of his arch-nemesis, the Prankster, who has corrupted Harley Quinn's body and mind."

"Not autobiographical, huh?" sighed Harley, flipping through the script. "Think I might need to have some words with Mr. J."

"What's my role?" demanded Signora Ivy, grabbing the script away from Signor Dent.

"Um…it's a small but vital part…" began Tetch.

"Martha Wayne?" she repeated, looking up at him.

"Yes…you die in the first ten minutes," said Crane, slowly. "You get shot by the Prankster, which starts the Batman off on his crusade, so in many ways, you're actually the central character…"

"Ten minutes?!" shrieked Ivy. "Do I even get an aria?!"

"You get a trio with Thomas Wayne and young Bruce before you're gunned down," said Tetch. "It's a very catchy number…"

"I don't believe this!" screamed Ivy. "And all because both the Joker and the Vicomte wanna sleep with this one!" she shrieked, throwing a finger at Harley. "So I get pushed to the side because I'm the less desirable woman?! That's sexist, you misogynistic bastards!"

"Neither of us are misogynists!" snapped Crane. "In fact, we both respect women enough that we don't want to go through with the Vicomte's ridiculous demands! But we're just doing as we're instructed! If you have a problem, take it up with the Vicomte!"

"No problems here, boys!" chuckled a familiar voice from Box Five. "I think this little opera's gonna be a laugh riot!"

"But Mr. J, it's Brucie's attempt to try and portray himself as a hero to the public at large," said Harley. "I really don't think we should be encouraging his propaganda."

"Of course we should, Harley girl!" chuckled Joker. "Anyone who sees this is gonna think it's a comedy! A guy who fights crime by dressing up as a bat? They'll laugh Brucie's hero off the stage, like a whole 'Springtime for Hitler' routine!"

"What's Hitler?" asked Harley.

"Well, you'll find out in about fifty years," said Joker. "And it won't be pretty. Anyway, I'm all for letting Brucie put on his show. I won't interfere with it in the slightest. I'll just watch him hang himself, metaphorically speaking, of course. So you all be good little performers and do Brucie's vision justice. I can't wait to see his little tragedy end in giggles. Break a leg, baby, I'll see you later," he said, blowing Harley a kiss and disappearing.

"Well…at least we know we won't have another mishap with the chandelier," said Tetch. "Thank heaven for small mercies."

"Yes. If you can trust the word of someone calling himself the Joker, which God only knows," agreed Crane.

"Wait a minute," said Signor Dent, who had been studying the script. "It says here that I'm supposed to rescue Harley Quinn whom the Prankster has tied up over a vat of acid?"

"Yes, it's the…climax of the piece," said Tetch. "The Batman confronts the Prankster in a…chemical factory, where he's holding Miss Quinn captive."

"How are we going to stage that?" asked Signor Dent.

"Well…we're going to have a clear glass tank built," said Tetch, slowly. "And we're going to fill that with…something which will look like dangerous chemicals to an audience. Then Miss Quinzel will be suspended above it…with safety wires, of course, and all proper precautions taken," he added hastily.

"But it won't be real acid," agreed Crane, equally hastily. "Just…something that looks like it. A harmless substitute, mostly comprised of water. So that even if something does go wrong, no harm will come to Miss Quinzel. And later in the scene, you knock the Prankster into it, so you see it really must be a benign substance so that no harm will come to the actors. It's all perfectly safe, you see. Completely, perfectly safe."

"It had better be," spoke up Basil Karlo, the opera's second tenor. "I'm playing the Prankster, and I don't want to have to fall into anything that won't wash off. Or anything that will be bad for my skin."

"I assure you, Monsieur Karlo, it is all well in hand," said Crane. "You have the Vicomte Wayne's personal guarantee that…no one will be harmed in the making of his opera."

"If that will be all then, you may clear the stage, gentlemen," said Madame Leland. "We need to start rehearsing at once if you expect the cast to learn all this new material before opening night."

"Yes, of course, Madame Leland, we'll get out of your hair," said Crane, bowing to her. "Good luck, everyone. I think we'll all need it," he muttered, as he and Tetch headed backstage.

"Are we doing the right thing, Jonathan?" asked Tetch.

"God knows," sighed Crane. "I sincerely hope the Vicomte knows what he's doing. But I have a feeling that we haven't seen the last disaster beyond imagination this opera has to offer."


	10. Chapter 10

It was once again opening night at the Paris Opera House, and almost the entire elite of the city had turned out to see the new production of _The Batman Triumphant_ written by the illustrious Vicomte Bruce Wayne. He was in the audience, tempting fate by seating himself again in Box Five, although he had to grudgingly admit, it did have the best view of the stage.

"So what's your plan for tonight, Brucie?" chuckled a familiar voice from the shadows. "I enjoyed watching rehearsals for your little melodrama – is that really how you see yourself? As some kinda superhero?"

"You won't be laughing about anything after tonight, clown," growled Bruce. "This is the end for you and your reign of terror."

"What, you think people are gonna see your little vanity project and rally behind your cause to rescue Miss Quinzel from my nefarious clutches?" chuckled Joker. "You think you're gonna rouse the aristocratic mob to grab their torches and pitchforks and hunt down the murderer from wherever he's hiding in the opera?"

"I think I'm not going to tell you my plan," retorted Bruce. "Only supervillains do that, don't they?"

"Yeah, that's a point," agreed Joker. "But only because the heroes are too stupid to figure it out otherwise. I, on the other hand, am not. You've got a surprise ready for the opening night, haven't you? Something planned for the show that wasn't in the rehearsals. Well, luckily I was paying close attention during the rehearsals, so I'll be able to tell what you've changed for opening night."

"We'll see," said Bruce.

There was no reply, and he thought the Joker had disappeared for the moment, when suddenly his voice whispered right in his ear, "You can't win Harley's love by trying to be a hero, y'know. They ain't her type."

Bruce whirled around with his pistol drawn, but the box was empty. He sat back down slowly and forced his eyes back to the stage, where the overture was winding down. He opened his pistol and checked to make sure it was loaded – that was essential to his plan. Then he looked toward the stage, where his opera was beginning.

Unfortunately for the Joker, nobody actually did laugh at Bruce's opera. Opera audiences were used to taking more ridiculous stories seriously, like _Rigoletto,_ which is about a hunchbacked court jester who mocks a guy and gets a curse put on him that destroys his life. True story, it's an opera about how people can't take a joke. Anyway, this opera about a justice-seeking man in a bat costume was actually hugely appealing to such an audience, and by the climax of the show in the chemical factory, nearly everyone was on the edge of their seats. Especially Bruce, who felt his nerves tense up as he leaned forward, grasping the pistol and aiming it carefully.

On stage, the Prankster was belting out a gleefully triumphant number as he began to cut the ropes holding up Harley over the large tank of what looked like green acid, who was belting out an equally loud plea to stop. Suddenly, Signor Dent as the Batman appeared on the stage, climbing the platform to reach his enemy as he too joined in the number. The Batman and the Prankster confronted each other in song, with the tank in between them over which a suspended Harley also sang.

From the box, Bruce took a deep breath, and then raised his pistol up to the rafters. He aimed at the rope holding up a sandbag, released his breath, and fired.

The bullet whizzed through the rope, and the sandbag fell down toward the stage. It landed in the tank of acid with a splash. Bruce had assumed there would be a splash, but he hadn't counted on how much of one would occur, nor the angle at which it would splash out. His intention had been to shoot the sandbag down and let it fall into the acid and dissolve, so that everyone could see that the acid was real, and that Harley's life was in danger by being suspended over it. The Joker would be blamed both for the sandbag and for switching out the fake acid for the real – Harley would be horrified, and reject the monster even as he rushed to save her. Then Bruce would appear, swing Harley to safety, and shoot the Joker, becoming the real life hero of the story. But unfortunately for him and others, that wasn't what happened at all.

The liquid in the tank surged violently upward as the sandbag hit, splashing out onto half of Signor Dent's face with a sickening hiss.

He instantly stopped singing and began screaming, clawing at his face. The actors on stage broke character as Basil Karlo rushed over to him, removing the Batman mask with some difficulty. He gasped in horror as he saw that half of Signor Dent's face had been horribly burnt and scarred.

The audience's collective reaction was to gasp in horror. "Harvey!" screamed Ivy, who had been watching from the wings. She raced onto the stage as Basil tried to calm Dent, who was thrashing and screaming in pain. "Harvey, oh my God!"

"It's real acid," whispered Basil. "Someone's switched out the prop stuff…"

Harley shrieked suddenly as her rope, which had been deliberately cut to fall in the scene, began to snap. Basil reached for her, and caught her hand. "Hold on, Harley!" he hissed, trying to pull her to safety. But he didn't have a good grip, and her hand started slipping just as the rope snapped…

Suddenly, she was seized around the waist by a pair of strong, firm arms. "I got you, kid," whispered the voice of the Joker, who pulled her to safety on the platform. She threw herself into his arms, sobbing against him.

"You bastard!" shrieked Ivy, glaring up at Joker in fury. "How could you switch the acid like that?! How could you do this to Harvey as some kinda sick joke?!"

"I didn't!" snapped Joker. "Why would I deliberately put the woman I love in danger by making her hang over real acid? That would be a monumentally stupid thing to do, and also, not funny!"

"Then who did do it?" demanded Ivy. "And why?"

"I know who, and I know why," hissed Joker, glaring across to Box Five at Bruce. "Someone who wanted to play hero for a night by rescuing a damsel in distress. Well, come on then, hero!" he shouted, holding open his arms. "Come on and face me! This ends tonight!"

"Mr. J, don't…" began Harley, but she screamed as a bullet sliced through the Joker's cape. Bruce held the smoking gun, standing up in the box and suddenly jumping from it onto the stage.

"This does end tonight," he agreed. "Miss Quinzel and this opera will be free of the plague of your existence."

"Hey, I'm not the one who just scarred Harvey for life!" snapped Joker. "That's your fault, hero!"

"It's yours!" shouted Bruce. "By forcing me to take extreme measures! By your relentless persistence in haunting this opera and bothering Miss Quinzel…"

"The only person bothering me is you!" shrieked Harley. "Why can't you just leave us alone?!"

"Because it's not right, Harley, don't you understand?!" roared Bruce. "He's the deformed lunatic, the villain of this story! I'm the hero! You're supposed to be with me! Villains don't get the girl, not in any story ever! They end up unhappy and alone, because they're bad people, and they don't deserve to be loved!"

"This isn't a story, Bruce!" shrieked Harley. "Life isn't like your opera – there aren't good guys and bad guys and heroes and villains fighting each other night after night! And just because you see the world in that black and white way doesn't mean that's what it's really like! And just because you're rich and handsome doesn't mean you deserve to be loved either! I'm sorry you've been spoiled your whole life so you believe that, but it's just not true! People are more interested in what's on the inside of a person than outside appearances or superficial things, like good looks and wealth! At least, I am! Mr. J has done bad things, but I love him and he loves me!"

"A creature like that can't love!" shouted Bruce. "And how can you love a monster?! Have you even seen his face?!" he shouted, gesturing at the mask that the Joker wore. "I'm sure no one can look upon it and not be horrified!"

"Well, see for yourself!" retorted Joker, ripping off the mask to reveal his clown face. "This is what I look like, people! Now who are you more horrified by – the clown, or the so-called hero who hurt Harvey?! Yeah, I've done some horrific, violent pranks on you all, but I've never done anything like that to anyone!"

"What about when you killed Nygma and crashed the chandelier?" spoke up Tetch from the managers' box.

"Ok, hands up here who liked Nygma?" asked Joker, looking around the cast. Nobody put their hands up. "Face it – nobody's upset about that," he said. "And yeah, the chandelier gag killed some randomers, some well-dressed, well-off shills who pay a fortune to watch people dressed in silly costumes act out ridiculous plots and scream into each other's faces for hours on end, not because they enjoy it, but because that's what rich people do. Frankly, I think the world is better off without 'em. And at least I killed 'em quickly and cleanly, unlike what Brucie has done to poor Harv! He's gonna have to live with that deformity for the rest of his life, and trust me, people aren't nice to you when you look like a freak! I should know! The first time someone spits at him, he's gonna wish he was dead! That would be a mercy compared to the life he's gonna lead now, the life I led for years and years until I met the one woman in the world who could see past my own deformity and love me for who I am. This world ain't kind to freaks. After being treated with violence for so long just for being who you are, no one can blame you for fighting back against people who think that being born pretty and rich means you have the right to do whatever the hell you want, and treat people who aren't born pretty and rich like dirt. If there was any justice in the world, it'd be you who got the acid in his face, not Harvey, so you can see what it's like to look like that. But there is no justice in this world – that's an idea made up by people who write operas. The truth is the world is harsh and brutal and cruel, and the only thing anyone can do when confronted with that is either give in to it, or laugh at it. And that's what I do, Brucie. I laugh at it, and at you, hero."

Bruce had raised his gun again, but Harley leaped in front of Joker before he could fire. "Don't you dare!" she screamed. "You'll have to shoot me too!"

"Harley, don't tempt fate!" shouted Joker, pushing her gently away from him. "You getting accidentally shot instead of me is basically the ending of a tragic opera! Or indeed, that ridiculous sequel to _The Phantom of the Opera._ The Phantom and Christine having a one-night stand the night before her wedding to Raoul – can we say OOC much? Like, what part of 'It's over now, the Music of the Night' screamed sequel to Lloyd Webber?"

He ducked suddenly to avoid another bullet. "Bruce, don't!" shrieked Harley, trying to grab the gun from him.

Bruce knocked her away, hissing, "You'll thank me later, Harley. Once the monster is dead, and you're free of his power."

He aimed again, but before he could pull the trigger, he was punched in the back of the head. "That's for Harvey!" shrieked Ivy, as he whirled around. "And so's this!" she shouted, kicking him hard in the groin. Bruce fell to his knees with a gasp of pain, and that was when the Joker ripped off his cape and hastily tied it around Bruce, binding him securely.

"No!" shouted Bruce, struggling against the purple material. "You can't do this to me! I'm the hero!"

"Hero, huh?" repeated Joker. "Well, the audience has seen the whole thing – let's ask them," he said, gesturing out at the packed auditorium. No one had moved, but now they began to jeer and hiss at Bruce, booing him loudly.

"Yeah, doesn't sound like the reception a hero would be getting," said Joker, nodding. "Believe me, I've seen a lotta operas in my time here, and they only ever boo the villains."

Harley raced into Joker's arms, embracing him tightly. "I'm so glad you're safe," she whispered. She kissed him tenderly, and the audience collectively 'aww'ed.

During the confrontation, Crane had telephoned the police, and they arrived on the scene suddenly, bursting into the auditorium. "We received reports of a disturbance here?" said the chief of police.

"Yes, from that man," said Crane, pointing at Bruce. "He's been subdued, but please remove him at once. He interrupted the show by leaping onto the stage brandishing a weapon, and attempted murder by replacing fake acid with real. Just look at our principal tenor's face," he said, nodding at Dent, who Ivy cradled gently in her arms. "That's the Vicomte's doing."

"Crane, are you mad?" demanded Bruce. "You can't arrest me! I'm the patron of this opera!"

"And that doesn't give you the right to use it as your own personal playground, Monsieur le Vicomte," agreed Tetch, joining them on stage. "We must ask that you publicly renounce your patronage of this opera, since many eye witnesses have seen you commit acts of violence. We won't accept money from a criminal."

"Criminal?" repeated Bruce, aghast. "I'm not a criminal! That's him!" he shouted, nodding at Joker. "The clown! He's the one who murdered Nygma and caused the chandelier crash!"

"Those were both unfortunate accidents," said Crane, calmly. "But in his madness, the Vicomte seeks to blame, in his mind, the obvious suspect – the deformed clown. He's seen one too many operas, I expect, and it's corrupted his mind. Terrible tragedy, but not even the wealthy are immune from madness."

"Come along, Monsieur le Vicomte," said the chief of police, hauling Bruce to his feet. "We'd like a word down at the station."

"No! He can't win! I won't let him!" shouted Bruce, as he was dragged away. "I'm not crazy! He's terrorized the opera, corrupted Miss Quinzel's mind, murdered innocents…"

"Perfect plot for an opera, wouldn't you agree?" asked Tetch of the police chief. "He's clearly unable to distinguish fiction from reality, the poor, poor fellow. If you need us to testify at any point during his sanity hearing, we are at your service. Now please remove him from our opera."

The Joker and Harley had headed over to see how Dent was doing – he had lost consciousness shortly after the accident, but Ivy held him tenderly, stroking his hair back from his face. "Thanks for stopping Bruce back there, Pammie," said Joker. "Guess I owe you one."

"I didn't do it for you – I did it for him," snapped Ivy, nodding at Dent. "But if you'd like to repay the favor, how about you avoid the whoopie cushion during my future performances, where I'll alternate the starring role with Harley?"

"No problemo, toots!" chuckled Joker. "It's a deal. Fortunately, she didn't say anything about the chattering teeth," he whispered in Harley's ear.

"Is he going to be all right?" asked Harley gently, gazing at Dent.

"I don't know," said Ivy. "But I know whatever happens, I'll be by his side to help him through it."

Joker smiled. "Then take it from a deformed lunatic, Pammie – if he has someone he loves by him, he's gonna be all right."

He squeezed Harley's hand gently. The managers dismissed the audience with pledges of a full refund, and came over to Ivy and Dent, along with Madame Leland. "We should get him to a hospital at once," she said. "There's a cab waiting outside."

"Yes," said Ivy, helping to lift him. "Although maybe Harvey would prefer to be dead, since his career will be ruined after this. No one will pay to see a deformed man sing."

"I don't see why not," replied Madame Leland. "If his voice isn't affected, he's certainly welcome back here as first tenor as far as I'm concerned."

"Yes, quite right," agreed Tetch. "There's no reason why he should lose his career over the unfortunate actions of a madman. Be sure to express that to him when he wakes up."

Dent was carried away to the cab with Ivy and Madame Leland accompanying him. "Well…thanks for not ratting me out to the cops, boys," said Joker, turning to the managers. "You didn't have to do that."

"I think we did – it was essential that we proved the Vicomte insane so we could get him out of our hair forever," said Crane. "Believe me, in terms of headaches, he's far more annoying than you are."

"But it's most impolite of you to order us around and demand things from us," continued Tetch. "Especially in note form. If you'd like to discuss creative changes to the opera, do come see us face to face and join us for some tea. That's how civilized people decide things."

"We recognized Miss Quinzel's talent without your threats, you know," agreed Crane. "If anything, they just prevented us from wanting to make her our star. So in future, try the more civilized approach."

"I'm afraid you won't be getting any money from us, though," sighed Tetch. "Losing the Vicomte's patronage means we don't have a single franc to spare, let alone 20,000."

"Oh, don't you worry, boys!" chuckled Joker. "I may have hidden away a lot of what Cobblepot gave me – it's quite a nest egg! I mean, I'm a man of simple pleasures, and whoopie cushions come fairly cheap. I don't even know how to spend that much money - I mostly blackmailed him for cash just to see if I could, and how much he'd put up with before he snapped. I'd be happy to donate it as thanks for getting rid of Brucie."

"How very generous, thank you," said Tetch, smiling at him. "Let's discuss the details over tea tomorrow in our office. You see, Jonathan, I told you buying this opera house wasn't such a bad idea after all."

They left the auditorium, leaving Joker and Harley alone. "So…everyone's seen your face and knows who you are," said Harley. "Your air of mystery is over."

"Yeah, but it was a good gag while it lasted," said Joker, shrugging. "And since I'm apparently the new patron of this place, I'm sure they'll let me stick around in my home underneath it. They don't know where I live, after all, so they can't really evict me. It's just I'll be paying rent now. But that doesn't mean I won't still prank people from time to time, for old time's sake. I'll try to take it easy on Pammie for a little while though – heck, she'll be starring in the next few productions anyway since you'll be gone."

"Gone?" repeated Harley, puzzled. "Where am I going?"

"Well, on our honeymoon with me, of course," replied Joker, grinning.

Harley beamed at him. "You mean…you mean you want to marry me?"

"Yeah, might as well make an honorable woman outta you," he said. "Anyway, I don't want people seeing you singing like an angel up on that stage and thinking you're unattached. They might go all crazy to have you, like Brucie."

Harley smiled. "So, in the spirit of happy endings," said Joker, kneeling down in front of her and taking her hands. "Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude. Say you'll want me with you here beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too – Harley Quinn, that's all I ask of you."

And they kissed as the curtain came down.


	11. Chapter 11

"So all's well that end's well – the good ended unhappily, and the bad happily, as all good stories should end," finished Joker.

"What happened to Signor Dent?" asked Arleen. "Was he ok?"

"He was permanently disfigured on one half of his face, but Signora Ivy didn't mind that," said Joker. "They got married and continued to sing together at the opera, to great adulation."

"I like how you made Aunt Ivy kinda the hero of this one, Dad – makes a change from all your other stories," said J.J.

"What about Bruce? What happened to him?" asked Harley.

"He got certified, and confined to a lunatic asylum," said Joker. "Which some would say is the best place for him."

"I guess it is hard out there for a deformed person," said J.J., nodding thoughtfully. "Fortunately, I've got stunning good looks."

"Yeah, right," said Arleen, rolling her eyes.

"It's fairly inevitable that you're both attractive – just look at your parents," said Joker, gesturing to himself. "But I hope you took from the story that it doesn't really matter what you look like. It's what on the inside that counts. On the other hand, if you can nail a hot chick like I did, why the hell wouldn't you?"

"My thoughts exactly," said J.J.

"J.J., you're too young to be nailing anyone," snapped Harley.

"That's not what Aunt Ivy says," muttered J.J.

"What?" asked Harley.

"Nothing," said J.J., hastily. "You're right, Mom – I'm too young for romance."

"Yes, you are," agreed Harley. "And until you're older, just enjoy it through a safe, fictional environment, like your Daddy's stories, or your sister's musical."

"Yeah, those don't end in unwanted pregnancies and STDs," agreed Joker. "They just end in nonsense, like the girl going off with the rich idiot and leaving the musical genius alone."

"I guess that's why it's considered a tragedy, puddin'," said Harley. "Anyway, I give that couple's relationship a year. Based on the musical, they don't know each other at all – who knows if they even have common interests aside from opera? You gotta get to know each other before you commit like that. In our case, I psychoanalyzed your Daddy's mind, so I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting into."

"Yeah, and she was very eager to get into it!" chuckled Joker. "Both my mind and my pants!"

"Puddin', the kiddies don't need to hear about that!" snapped Harley.

"Mom, we've lived with you our whole lives – we know you're always eager to get into Dad's pants," said Arleen, rolling her eyes again.

"Yeah, but you can't blame me," sighed Harley, gazing dreamily at him. "Just look at that face and tell me he ain't irresistible!"

"It'd be kinda creepy if we did that, seeing how he's our Dad and all…" began Arleen.

"I'm getting back to work now," said J.J. "Leenie, keep the music down. Mom and Dad, keep the noise down in the bedroom."

"How did you know we were headed to our bedroom?" asked Harley, puzzled.

"Leenie's right – we've lived with you our whole lives. We know that look," said J.J. "Anyway, Dad's just told a rare, romantic story about the two of you – how else are you gonna react?"

"The kids know you too well," said Joker, shaking his head as he and Harley headed for their bedroom.

"Yeah," agreed Harley. "But so do you, and you think you wouldn't tell stories like that if you didn't want to get me in the mood."

"Who says I didn't want that?" he asked, grinning. "From the first mention of the whoopie cushion in the story, I wanted to make some whoopie cushion of our own."

"Yeah…I liked it better when you were being all romantic in the story," sighed Harley. "You know, all that 'all I ask of you' stuff, rather than the clown euphemisms."

"What's wrong with the clown euphemisms?" demanded Joker. "That's what our entire sex life is based on!"

"And I love it, but sometimes a change is nice," said Harley. "C'mon, puddin' – sweet talk me like in the story."

Joker grinned. "I got an even better idea. C'mere, toots," he said, pulling her close. Harley giggled, expecting a pleasant surprise. What she got was a punch to the face.

"Hey, what gives?" she demanded, ducking another punch.

"C'mon, baby, this'll get you in the mood and it's romantic!" chuckled Joker. "It's the Music of the Fight!"

"That's the lamest joke I've ever heard, Mr. J!" snapped Harley. He struck her across the face again, and she beamed. "But even lame jokes get me in the mood, as long as they come with violence!"

"That's the power of the Music of the Fight," agreed Joker. "So c'mon, pooh – you alone can punch out all my lights, help me make the Music of the Fight!" Harley giggled as she kicked him into the bedroom, and shrieked happily as he dragged her in by her leg. "Yep, I'm definitely using that line on Batsy next time I see him," he sighed to himself, as he shut the bedroom door.

 **The End**


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